


sun. kissed.

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: If Hilda’s always running around in flannels and cardigans and long skirts, how is her skin always “sun-kissed”?





	sun. kissed.

It shouldn’t be so enticing after so many decades of it. Zelda should be over it, desensitized, nonchalant.

But she isn’t any of those things, and it’s still enticing.

She lights her third cigarette and again adjusts herself on the window seat. 

She thinks Hilda’s definitely doing this purposefully. There are plenty of places not in view of Zelda’s window that she could be doing this just as efficiently for her ostensible purposes. But Hilda’s chosen to position her reclining lawn chair just so. Zelda is as quietly furious as she is grateful.

Zelda drinks a sip of her mint julep—her summer day drink—as she drinks in Hilda’s reclining form—her a few certain summer days secret guilty pleasure.

Hilda yawns and stretches, places her arms over her head.

Zelda’s eyes travel from Hilda’s deft fingers now laced over her head to dimples casually smiling at the heat and sunshine to jutting collarbones to ample perfect tits to the swell of belly to slightly darker than blonde curls to strong thighs to glistening tibia to manicured toes.

It shouldn’t be this enticing after two centuries of seeing her sunbathing.

Zelda drinks and watches and thinks and yearns. She yearns for all the centuries and anew. She thinks all the same things she’s always thought. She drinks through it all.

After maybe a half hour, Hilda turns over.

And dear Satan her back.

Zelda is already half drunk, but Hilda’s backside sobers her slightly.

The blonde haphazard ringlets, the smooth neck, the freckles, the shoulder blades, the witch’s mark, the taut hamstrings, the pert ass, the hard calves.

It shouldn’t be this enticing after two centuries of seeing her sunbathing. Nude sunbathing. It shouldn’t be so enticing, but it always is.

Zelda opens the window, hoping for a breeze.

At the same moment, Hilda turns her head, looks directly at her two stories up.

Zelda could swear Hilda had made eye contact and very deliberately winked.

Zelda retreats to the study. She needs more booze and to forget both what she’s seen and what she probably only had thought she’d seen. What she’s always seen and tried not to see. What she’s seen that wasn’t hers to see. What she’s seen that hasn’t been meant to be seen by anyone. What she’s seen that should’ve been commonplace and neutral instead of absolutely inflaming.

Zelda has abandoned the mint and sugar and water and is knocking back straight bourbon as Hilda enters, summer short, light cotton, lemon-colored robe tied loosely around her naked body.

“Hot as blazes today,” Hilda says as she flops onto the settee, crossing her ankles on the armrest, her robe falling open to reveal her bellybutton and thighs and tops of her breasts.

“At least as hot as blazes,” Zelda says. She pounds her glass onto the desk more forcefully than she’d intended.

“Is there any ice left? I could use something cool,” Hilda says, and her robe falls open farther. The loose tie at her waist is straining, and Zelda is straining not to look at what the robe is failing at concealing, which is sun-reddened, maddeningly enticing flesh.

“Sure,” Zelda says, still staring as she clunks a few cubes of ice into a new glass. “Alcoholic or non?” She says, fingers itching against the cut glass decanter.

“Lady’s choice,” Hilda says, stretching and settling on the settee. She might as well ditch the robe entirely for how much it’s not covering her at this point. “As long as it’s cold,” Hilda amends.

Zelda fumbles an ice cube, can’t think of any mixed drinks at all.

“Done and done,” Zelda says somehow.

It’s a convenient lie for pretending to rummage through the liquor cabinet while she shamefully ogles her sister and imagines scenarios.

“In fact, maybe I’d prefer just an ice cube,” Hilda says.

Zelda freezes at that. Maybe Hilda has known, maybe she hasn’t. But this, regardless, is an opportunity she can’t afford to ignore.

Zelda takes one between her thumb and index finger. Hilda’s eyes are closed, and Zelda knows how to be silent. She drops to her knees beside the settee.

Hilda gasps as the ice cube meets her left eyebrow.

“Oh!” Hilda says. “That’s certainly—”

Zelda drags the ice cube to Hilda’s right eyebrow and then down the bridge of her nose.

“Oh…” Hilda moans.

Hilda’s eyes are tightly shut, and she’s already squirming, anticipating.

Zelda continues trailing the ice cube, over Hilda’s lips and then chin. Hilda reclines her head farther, a silent encouragement, and the ice cube melts its way down her overheated neck to the plane of her chest above her breasts, where Zelda draws the shape of a spider with the smaller and smaller ice cube. Finally it’s a sliver, and she gives it a final push, watches it slide along and disappear between Hilda’s breasts.

“Better, sister?” Zelda says. Hilda lets out a deep breath, says,

“Haven’t decided yet.” She finally opens her eyes, looks at Zelda with such undisguised lust that Zelda plunges her tongue into Hilda’s open mouth.

Hilda nips at Zelda’s lip, and Zelda pulls back.

Both their eyes are wide and searching.

“Don’t act like you don’t do it on purpose,” Zelda says as she dips her head again to taste Hilda’s mouth.

They kiss, a thrashing thing, until Hilda says against Zelda’s lips,

“What do I do on purpose?”

“Everything,” Zelda says, surging again, claiming Hilda’s mouth, grasping Hilda’s hips with hard, possessive fingers as she hoists herself from her kneeling position onto Hilda’s supine, luxurious body on the settee. Zelda thrusts her hips, and Hilda’s hips answer. “But especially sunbathing.” She presses a thigh between Hilda’s, thrusts again. “You can’t be serious with that. Some fucking pin up girl for my exclusive viewing.” Zelda unties the robe and digs her fingers into Hilda’s side. Hilda groans, somewhere between pleasure and pain, and Zelda says, “How long did you think I could last?” Zelda's other hand has found one of Hilda’s tits and is pinching a nipple. Hilda’s moaning and shifting and bucking her hips.

“You’ve lasted much longer than I’d anticipated,” Hilda pants, canting her hips. “Or wanted.” She fists Zelda’s hair. “Why do you think I had to resort to the classic ‘too hot in an ill fitting robe’ trick?”

Zelda’s stunned laugh is swallowed in Hilda’s ravenous kiss. 

Zelda slides a hand over the expanse of skin she’s so ogled for so long and descends into the deep dark space she’s dreamed about, and it’s glorious. Tight curls and slick folds. Tight opening and ready clit. She palpates and explores, leisurely skimming and feeling as Hilda sighs and bucks against her.

“So you’ve been teasing me this whole time?” Zelda whispers as she traces a finger up one side of Hilda’s clit and then down the other.

“Hmm seducing?” Hilda husks as she rolls her hips. Zelda increases the pressure and speed of her finger.

“Well. You’re very skilled at the work up. But the follow through…” It’s a side-to-side motion now, and Hilda squeaks,

“I’d thought the follow through would be your department.” Zelda stills, removes her hand entirely, pierces Hilda with her gaze:

“How real is this, Hildegard? Do you really want me to do what I want to do?” Hilda tugs at Zelda’s hair, frowns:

“Do I need to send you a certified letter about it?”

They stare at each other for a tense moment, and then Zelda barely suppresses a smile as she says,

“At least a notarized statement of your intentions.” Hilda throws her head back to laugh, and Zelda watches her sternocleidomastoid very carefully.

“That requires two witnesses. I’d prefer to keep it private. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Zelda says, no longer being able to restrain herself from pressing her lips to Hilda’s throat. “But,” she whispers against the sun-and-arousal warmed flesh. “Am I to believe you really want this when the only discernible attempts you’ve made to seduce me have been every June when you get your base tan?”

Hilda laughs again, and it reverberates into Zelda’s mouth as she continues licking and sucking at her throat. Hilda grabs for Zelda’s hand, interlaces their fingers.

“Demons below, you are dense. Love, last week I sat in your lap at your dressing table!” Zelda pulls up from Hilda’s throat, confused:

“You were doing my eyeliner.”

“Why would I need to sit in your lap for that?”

“You always sit in my lap for that.” Hilda squeezes her hand and laughs again. Realization hits. She thinks of several other occurrences over the years—volunteering to share her bed when company’s over, a particularly sensual massage, a half dozen sexy pillow fights. She’d thought she’d just been projecting. Hilda squeezes her hand again, and Zelda is brought back to the present, says, “Oh.” They look at each other, and some of the color drains from Hilda’s pinkened face.

“Maybe I should be asking if you really want this...” Zelda doesn’t like the furrow in Hilda’s brow, the sudden uncertainty in her eyes. Zelda squeezes Hilda’s hand this time and kisses her, slips her tongue in easily, bucks her hips against her, moans into her. She pulls back just enough to whisper,

“I just couldn’t imagine you’d share my—inclinations.”

“I do, though,” Hilda whispers.

“Would you like to go upstairs, where there’s more room?”

Hilda bites lightly at Zelda’s bottom lip, says,

“Hmm. Yes. But bring the ice bucket.”


End file.
